Reason
by Charis M
Summary: “Mutual comfort has nothing to do with emotions.”  It takes her seven times to realise just how far things have gone, and how little she cares. Vague AU.


**Reason**  
by Charis

_Disclaimer: Battlestar Galactica and all associated characters belong to people who are not me. I'm just borrowing._

_Notes: I don't usually write fluff (if this even constitutes that), or stuff without much of a plot, so it surprised me. The next time a fluffy plotbunny comes by, I'm making soup._

_The heart has its reasons of which reason knows nothing.  
- Blaise Pascal_

It's not about love, when he touches her deep inside for the first time. They are both too tired for emotions then, too worn out by the frantic flight - have been awake for days, with only scant snatched minutes of sleep. The first time is about finding a glimmer of life amid the near-constant threat of death, about feeling _anything_ that is not wholly dark, and when she parts her legs for him and digs her nails into his back, fire sears through her. For that moment, she can pretend that she is not dying.

Neither of them is awake enough for formalities afterwards, nor for apologies; it seems there is nothing to apologise for, either. Mutual comfort has nothing to do with emotions, and so they are hardly jeopardising their working relationship. She promises herself not to let it repeat, thinking neither of them will ever be pushed quite that far again.

And yet it does. Somehow she finds herself there again, this time in his bed, with the sweat cooling on her skin and the fire receding and an almost pleasant ache overlaying the other, smaller pains of her body. She tries not to think about it afterwards, concentrating on the myriad of problems facing her instead of the memory of that heat, but it is hard when she has felt cold for so long ...

The third time, she pushes damp hair out of her eyes and smiles up at him, that measured, empty politician's smile that could mean anything, and says, "We have to stop meeting like this."

"I know," he agrees, but the words are less important than the patterns his callused fingers trace on her stomach. There is an odd languor to this, something decidedly sinful in taking the time for such pleasure when there are so many things which demand their attention, but she is dying, and surely the world has no room to object if she steals what moments she can. Against her better judgement, she admits (if only to herself, in the sanctity of her own mind) that this will almost certainly happen again - and that she awaits it far more eagerly than she should.

The fourth time, she is forced to concede that she, at least, has crossed the line. When he returns her kiss with unexpected tenderness, she wonders if he has as well, but then the now-familiar, sought-after fire threatens to consume her, and she focuses all of her attention on the sensations of the moment. Even if the line has been crossed, she must not dwell on it.

The fifth time, he whispers her name into the hollow of her throat as he spasms. Afterwards, she turns her face from his so that he will not see her tears, and when she has composed herself again, says, "This has to stop." They are both too far over that line, and objectivity is slipping - and she does not want to tell him, does not want to hurt him any more than she must, does not want him to know that she will be dead so soon ...

He does not say anything, but his eyes seek hers as she slips away, dresses. She does not look back as she leaves, knowing that if she does, she will stay.

The sixth time she realises it is too late and she has already bound her soul to his far more tightly than she ever intended. The sixth time, she falls apart in his arms, her entire body wracked by shivers as she cries. He holds her without question or reproach, lets the tears fall, and when afterwards she draws his mouth to hers, he gives his body to her. There is less urgency this time, as though the fires are banked but no less bright, and he touches her so gently that she wants to weep again, but she has no tears left, and instead she arches her body against his and takes him into herself.

This time, she falls asleep in his arms, physically and emotionally spent. When she wakes some time later, it is to find him watching her; his dark eyes are soft in a way she had never expected, and she wonders - suddenly, inappropriately - if maybe it is foolishness to continue fighting this. It is the first time she says his name, a question she cannot find words for.

The seventh time, when he slowly pushes inside of her, it feels like she is welcoming him home, and she realises this is no longer just about sex or comfort or something else distant, but about finding life and hope and - she finally understands - another's heart in the midst of everything. The seventh time, it is more than his name which she whispers, more than hers that he gives back. Afterwards, lying curled against him, she drifts, only to be brought back by the murmur of his voice.

"I assume," he says, almost dryly, as his fingers absently comb through her hair, "that you aren't going to suggest we stop meeting like this again."

For the first time in an eternity of days, she laughs.

_- finis -_


End file.
